Unspeakable Read Free

teacher at school: Mrs Austin. Her head wobbles on top of a long neck like a nodding Churchill dog. A secret smile sneaks across my face as I imagine her saying, ‘Oh, yes’ in a deep Leeds accent.
    Mrs Austin asks, ‘What makes Caliban’s speech so compelling in this scene?’
    No one responds. Undaunted by the steely silence, Austin’s eyes roam the room. They rest on me. Heat rises from my toes and devours my neck, ears, face.
    Please don’t ask me .
    But she asks my name, then glances at the register.
    Just leave me alone .
    I shake my head. I tilt it forward so my hair falls in two curtains around my face. I have an answer, but the words are locked deep within me and I can’t summon them to the surface. My classmates’ stares bore tiny holes into me. I clench my hands.
    Finally, someone breaks the agonising silence. ‘She doesn’t speak, Miss.’ Sadie’s voice is saturated with smugness.
    There’s an awkward pause. Someone must’ve told her about me, surely? Mrs Austin nods, gives an answer herself and moves on quickly.
    As we file out of the classroom, Sadie flounces up with Lindsay and Grace at her heels, practically salivating on her legs. Sadie makes a big deal of saying, ‘You’re welcome.’ Grace titters obligingly.
    My eyes flee to the ground and my arms wrap around my waist, but inside I’m seething. You cow. I still have a voice, even if I can’t use it. One day, when I can speak again, I’ll tell you exactly what I think of you .
    Sadie sticks her nose in the air and leaves.
    I sigh. One day, when I can speak again … Yeah, like that’s going to happen. Like I’d risk revealing the truth. No. I’ll stay quiet. After all, there’s no one better than a mute to keep a secret.

CHAPTER THREE
    When the bus chucks us out in Brookby after school, there are a few sightseers still milling around, clutching bags of sticky fudge. A pony and trap rattles along the road, carrying a couple of Asian tourists who huddle together against the cold, smiles frozen to their faces.
    As I pass the café, I peer through the steamy windows to see if Mum’s still there. She’s wiping down a table with brisk, impatient swipes. I bet she’s craving a cigarette – she has that slightly ratty look on her face.
    I can’t get used to seeing Mum with her hair tied back. She hates it, but her boss makes her. ‘Man’s a health and safety Nazi,’ she says. ‘Should’ve seen his face when he found a fake nail in the egg mayonnaise. Had the nerve to accuse me! I mean, it was Electric Cherry, for God’s sake, Megan. Who does he think I am?’
    Mum brushes a few loose strands of hair from her face. Her roots are starting to show. They’re dark blonde, in contrast to the yellowy colour she dyes it. I must get my brown, wavy mop from Dad, although I’ve never seen a photo of him.
    Mum straightens, spots me and waves. I wave back, then turn away and carry on home.
    A row of trees lines the main road. I look up, listening for birdcalls and chirps, the rustle and whisper of wind darting through leaves. The branches form a canopy above me, like parents holding umbrellas over their children. The trees have been here all my life, as ancient and sturdy as Grandpa, though they have survived him by three years.
    Mr Wexford dodders along the pavement towards me, shuffling and sniffing like a hedgehog. Back stooped, flat cap perched on his head, a walking stick in his trembling hand, he’s the picture of a frail, kindly old man. But I know better.
    Mr Wexford – like many locals – doesn’t approve of Scrater’s Close. Brookby is full of thatched cottages and converted barns, gardens that brim with roses, lavender, honeysuckle. Scrater’s is two long terraces of scruffy houses with rubbish-tip gardens, graffitied garages, and several obnoxious residents.
    As I pass him, Mr Wexford’s moustache twitches. It’s tinged pink where he’s spilled his medicine. It would be sweet if he weren’t such a horrible old git.